


bedsheets and daydreams

by HazelHare



Category: Leverage
Genre: And then there's angst, Autistic Parker (Leverage), Dream Sex, F/M, Hardison realises he's definitely into Eliot, How does one do feelings?, M/M, Oh Dear, POV Alec Hardison, and the dreams keep coming, we stan one (1) competent woman and her confused children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25387861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelHare/pseuds/HazelHare
Summary: Hardison had been in the shower now for nearly fifteen minutes. The warm water was running over his back and neck, and his forehead was resting on the cool tiles.Who could he ask?What would he ask?‘Fellas, is it gay to masturbate while remembering that dream you had of your best friend giving you a blow job?’
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison/Parker, Parker - Relationship, Sophie Devereaux & Alec Hardison, Sophie Devereaux & Parker (Leverage)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

Hardison stretched out across his bed, kicking his bare legs under the covers.

He was barely awake, eyes closed, resting his cheek against the pillowcase. His hand found a familiar grip, and he tried to recall the dream he’d been having. It was something warm and pleasant, something – _mm_ – nice.

There was a heist, he was running down a corridor away from the Borg, typical dream stuff, and Parker reached an arm out of a small closet and pulled him in after her.

It was dark and she was close, and smelled amazing. He breathed her in, ran his hand through her hair, and she – oh, she sank to her knees.

 _Mmm._ He shifted in the bed, arching his hips a little.

Her mouth was soft – her breath was – her tongue was-

He was so nearly-

He glanced down, looking at her beautiful dark hair, her checked shirt, her muscular arms, and mouth- oh, _fuck_ -

“Eliot!” he gasped, shock and surprise tipping him over the edge.

Guilt and pleasure washed through him, and he lay, breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell under the sheets.

~

Hardison had been in the shower now for nearly fifteen minutes. The warm water was running over his back and neck, and his forehead was resting on the cool tiles. 

Who could he ask?

 _What_ would he ask?

‘Fellas, is it gay to masturbate while remembering that dream you had of your best friend giving you a blow job?’

There was no good answer he was going to get to that.

~

When he wandered into the kitchen nearly an hour later, Eliot was making lunch for the three of them. Hardison felt his stomach clench and couldn’t tell if it was enjoyable or not. He squeaked out a high-pitched, “Hey, man!”

“Where you been? We need you to operate the-” Eliot gestured vaguely at the wall of screens. “Sit down, eat your fajitas, press the - thing. Parker’s got a case for us.”

Hardison settled uneasily onto a barstool in the dining area, trying to act normal. It was fine. It was fine. _Fine._ People had weird sex dreams about their friends sometimes. He would just avoid looking at Eliot’s shirt, arms, mouth, or crotch. Or basically any of him. Maybe he’d just spend the day with his eyes closed? 

“Wait a sec.”

Eliot loaded the wooden spoon with a little sauce, tapped it gently to the edge of the pan, and held it up to Hardison’s mouth with a hand cupped underneath. 

“Taste.”

Oh, _no_. 

Eliot was so close he could smell his hair; he could watch his eyelashes, he could see a smudge near his nose, he could feel his breath - oh _no_. 

Eliot was frowning and getting a familiar irritated tone to his voice.

“Open your mouth, dammit.”

Hardison decided to just ride it out, this couldn’t get any worse. 

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, and let Eliot feed him the sauce. It could have been the best sauce he’d ever tasted, not that he could taste anything right now, just nodded and smiled and did an unconvincing thumbs-up. 

Eliot frowned and tasted the sauce himself -

_oh no, he was using the same spoon_

_the exact spoon that was in his mouth_

_was now in Eliot’s mouth_

_Eliot’s mouth, that he’d last seen in a dream_

_with his mouth_

_that was-_

\- and nodded.

“Yeah, you’re right. Needs more flavour.”

Hardison was frozen to the chair, couldn’t get up, shouldn’t get up right now anyway because how would explain - _“I, er, I’ve got a real thing for wooden spoons”_?

Eliot turned back to the stove and added more sea salt and a dash of sriracha to the mixture. 

Hardison took the opportunity when his back was turned and made a quick dash to the couch, grabbed a cushion and lounged as casually as he could. _Me? No, I’m fine, I just love accessorizing with cushions over my pants; that’s how I roll._

Just had to get through lunch. This will be fine. Parker will arrive, they’ll eat lunch, it’s all good.

~

Parker talked them through the newest project, with worthwhile beneficiary and terrible perpetrator, expensive suits and human misery. 

Hardison was not paying attention. He was trying, but he was not paying attention. He smiled and nodded every time Parker or Eliot looked at him, and made a vague excuse that he had to “set up the internet” and escaped to his room. 

~

A few hours later he was sprinting through a corridor, looking behind him, being pursued by daleks. Daleks. Parker was always ambitious! They were… stealing, something from them. He was a bit vague on the details, but kept running as fast as he could.

Eliot appeared from a side corridor and pummelled into Hardison, pushing him to safety. He grabbed Hardison by the lapels and shoved him into a stationery closet. 

Both men stood, panting, face to face, listening hard for noise outside. 

Their breathing changed, subtly. Hardison could feel Eliot’s chest moving up against him. Hardison found himself intoxicated, breathing him in, eyes fixed on a soft patch of skin on Eliot’s mouth. He leaned down, unable to stop, pressing his mouth achingly to his. 

The closet was so close, so near, their bodies couldn’t get any closer - until they could. 

“I’ve never-” Hardison started.

“I have,” Eliot grinned. “Here, you just-”

And suddenly there was no gap between them, just skin against skin; Hardison gasped as he was suddenly so close-

“Eliot!”

He woke with a start, sweaty and embarrassed, in the dark in his bedroom.

 _Dammit_ , Eliot.


	2. croissants and champagne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is trying to get heists done, but keeps getting phone calls from her emotionally bewildered children

Sophie Deveraux was sipping an espresso on a balcony with a view over Parisian rooftops. Her legs were crossed up under her, and a half-eaten croissant sat within arm’s reach on a little glass table. 

Her phone rang. It was Hardison, and using his own number, so it was personal. 

She did some quick calculations about the time difference and answered with a video-call. 

“Hardison!”

“Heyy… Sophie.”

_Hmm. Hardison looked flushed and embarrassed._

_It was 5am his time; he was calling from his bedroom, in a rumpled bed, so it was something personal._

_He was calling her rather than talking to Parker or Eliot…_

_Time to test a theory._

“How are you all? How’s Parker and Eliot?”

_Aha!_

_His tell was very sweet, bless him. She said ‘Eliot’, and guilt flashed all over his face._

_So, it was something to do with Eliot._

_And he wasn’t talking to Parker about it so it was something to do with relationships or sex-_

_Oh!_

Sophie kept her face blank and let him finish speaking.

“Ah, that’s nice. And how many sex dreams have you had about Eliot?”

She drew the cup to her lips to hide her smile as best she could, watching Hardison stutter and blush and swear.

He sighed. 

“...How?”

“Do you really want an overview of all my people-reading skills? Sweetheart, it’s just what I do. I read people. There’s nothing wrong with coming to terms with your fee-”

Hardison’s face twitched slightly, and Sophie quickly adjusted the end of her sentence.

“-feverish and unexpectedly intimate dreams about a friend.” 

She grabbed at the croissant and took a bite, trying not to laugh.

“Help me, Sophie. It’s been nearly two weeks. I can’t talk to him any more; I can barely look at him! What do I do? Help me to make this stop.”

Sophie uncrossed her legs and sat her cup down on the table. 

“The question isn’t how to make this stop. There is a far, far more important question.” 

Hardison leaned in towards his phone. 

This would be it. He had total faith in Sophie somehow, to fix everything and to make things easier. She had stolen the Galaxy Opal, the Pearl of Lao Tzu, and a dozen other shiny, expensive rocks with stupid names. She’d conned presidents, princesses and kings, and had even had Eliot ironing her shirts for a week before he realised. She could turn any situation around with a few words.

She would fix this. 

Sophie spoke four words, smiled at him and ended the call.

Hardison dropped his phone on the bed and fell backwards, covering his face with his hands. 

That really, really didn’t help. 

~

It was dark outside, and the last of the customers was starting to clear out of the restaurant. Hardison was tucked into a booth in the corner, tapping his fingers against the side of his beer bottle. 

He ran his finger along the condensation, watching as a droplet of water meander down his finger onto the palm of his hand. He followed its path and tried to predict where it would go.

What did he want? 

That was the question he’d been turning over all day, thrumming through his mind like a tune that wouldn’t go away; like background noise that suddenly permeated all aspects of his awareness: a persistence, pressing on all parts of his skin, flattening the rest of his senses. 

What did he, Alec Hardison, want.

Eliot returned from the bar with a couple of drinks, and kicked his leg.

“Shove over, man.” 

He moved over obligingly, trying to hide the tension in his stomach, hoping that Eliot couldn’t read him like Sophie could. 

At this point nowhere was safe from the dreams - not the van, not the desk in the office, not the tables or the bar, not the kitchen, not this booth. Every place in his life doubled as the location for a dream, for sated desires and frantic, aching skin against skin-

Eliot nudged his thigh.

“You okay?”

He started to breathe in, choked, and heard his voice come out at a strangled, high-pitched yelp. 

“Yeah, man. Cool. Cool, cool, just-” 

He cast around for something guys did, nothing with their mouths, just two guys being pals, with all their clothes on and nobody inside anyone else!

“-watching the game, y’know?”

Eliot cast his eyes over to the television in the corner, and back to his friend.

“TV’s off,” he said suspiciously. 

Hardison grabbed his phone from his pocket, turned on the TV and found a sports channel - any sports channel - and acted as nonchalantly as he could. 

“See? I’m just watching the game.”

Eliot frowned, pursing his lips over the rim of his beer. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shook his head and turned to watch the TV.

~

Sophie was looking at her champagne with more and more longing. Outwardly she smiled dazzlingly at the Baron, flickering through all fourteen signs of paying attention, adding a few enticements and a repeated hand tap against his arm whenever he mentioned the target. 

The ballroom was bathed in golden light, and an orchestra in a far corner doing something reasonable with Brahms. She counted at least two other con artists - one at the buffet who kept dropping her fork and lifting jewellery from anyone who helped; the other was circulating with a tray of canapes and appeared near the Baron a little too often to be coincidental. Time to find somewhere a little more secluded.

Sophie lay her hand on the Baron’s arm and gestured towards the balcony. 

“Shall we get some air?”

She glanced down at her purse, which was vibrating, and checked the phone ID. it was Parker. 

“ _Entschuldigung, bitte_? I’ve been expecting a call from my jeweller.” She patted his arm once more, for luck, and ducked gracefully into an empty corridor.

“Parker? Are you all right?”

“Sophie! Are you in a heist?”

Sophie took a large gulp of champagne. 

“Yes. There’s a very sweaty man who keeps ‘accidentally’ brushing his hand against my arse.”

Parker’s eyes narrowed. “Stabbing?”

“I’m keeping count. So far he owes me fourteen million pounds, and I’m going to relieve him of that debt later this evening. _And_ the item.”

Parker scrunched her mouth up, but nodded appreciatively. 

“I would have stabbed him by now.” 

“I know, darling. I have about two minutes - what’s up?”

Parker would reluctantly admit, after many years, that she did sometimes have feelings. But that didn’t make it any easier to talk about. Even identifying feelings beyond “bad?” and “good, like chocolate” was a challenge. She sometimes felt like she was looking at other humans through some kind of blurred window, where their thoughts, feelings and motivations were always foggy and obscured. 

But the thing that did make sense? What always made sense, and was reassuring and kind and always there? Hardison. Or he was, until about a month ago. 

She frowned and clenched her jaw. 

“Something’s wrong with Hardison.” She felt tears fill her eyes, and tried to force the words out. “I think it’s my fault.” 


End file.
